The word “tired” is one I’d like to remove from my vocabulary, and one by which I judge myself – harshly – quite frequently. I’ve been tired for 20 years, which is neither here nor there, and despite many docs’ unsuccessful attempts to sort through tired for me, no one has every hit a satisfactory reason. Most days, I wish I did, or could, drink coffee, despite sickening at the very smell of it.
My constant state of tired makes me view parents of multiple children with an admiration bordering on fervor. How do they DO it? I marvel as I watch a Mom with a brood of little ones following after her in the grocery store. I admit to vacillating between thoughts of a friend’s insanity or perhaps her sainthood when she adopted a 5th child who has severe bipolar disorder, fetal alcohol syndrome and autism. Another family I know adopted 6 children, all with varying degrees of autism, and Mum homeschools them all. Both thankful for wonderful families like theirs and at the same time curious about what makes them tick, I’ve often compared my own unlikely sainthood to this high standard and have naturally found myself lacking.
Yet there are moments when I pat myself on the back for recognizing that we needed to stop at one, because we both wanted to and for the fact that we were both a little older (you’re welcome, Husband, for my not pointing out just how older we are, and just how much older than I are you) when we started our happy little family. While we like to think that a little bit of age made us wiser and smarter parents (it did), I, for one, have come to understand why our bodies are built to have babies when we are 17.